


Non Je Ne Regrette Rien

by Lady_Cleo



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M, Tournament of Shadows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was wrong. The kiss was exciting and sweet and thrilled her to the marrow of her bones- but she knew it was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non Je Ne Regrette Rien

It was wrong. The kiss was exciting and sweet and thrilled her to the marrow of her bones- but she knew it was wrong.

After the incident with the young Ms. Eames and her "siblings", after the attack when he'd taken the blame for her injury, she'd met his pretty wife- the dutiful and beautiful Mrs. Reid. She'd noticed the Inspector's puppy dog expression when she was near, an eye tracking his wife's every move, and a sad longing visible if one knew when to look. To the casual observer, Mrs. Reid was a lucky woman indeed.

However, Ms. Goren had also seen how cool they were together, how Emily almost shied from her husband's touch, instead clinging to her duties and obligations. She was a shining respectable pillar of the community… and for all Deborah could see, about as temperate towards her husband as the arctic marble of her columnar peers.

By unintentional contrast, Deborah was a warm woman, full of passion and compassion that spilled over into the world around her. She had no children of her own, and so gave her love unfailingly to her charges, these poor lost poor children who had no love of their own. She had no husband, and so grew tender attachments, like soft green vines to those close within her sphere. She viewed Joshua and Isaac almost as family, since they had known each other so long, and escaped to this new life together.

Yet she did not care for Edmund Reid the same way she did with the others in her care and concern. She did not love him as a sister to a brother, not even as one friend to another. Instead she loved him with as much of her heart as she could, truly deeply, as a woman loves a man.

She had not meant to push at him, to fly into such a passionate rage when he'd come to update her on the case. It was no conscious ploy to highlight the differences between her and his wife. He needed no guidance; the man had eyes and they were firmly and solely fixed on the lovely figure of Mrs. Emily Reid.

They had fought because of his seeming willingness to abandon the case, to accept that nothing more within the law could be done. She could not accept that; she had mourned Joshua's death as deeply as his brother, and had allowed Inspector Reid into their lives because she trusted him to set things right. This ostensible betrayal of her faith in him, compounded with her sublimated feelings and the still fresh grief, pushed her past a breaking point and at him she flew, railing and shoving with all the force of her emotional furor.

He had accepted the onslaught, bearing the brunt of the invective silently, only defending against the harshest of blows- until she had hit upon his shoulder. Instantly he had flinched and withdrawn slightly, and the reaction had stopped her cold. The nurturer in her was spurred to act, quelling her flared temper like a summer storm.

She had probed delicately for the source of his pain, and they had retired to a bench with a bottle of Żubrówka. She had filled a glass of the subtle vanilla vodka for each of them, and sat quietly as he relayed his tale. Deborah was used to letting others talk without interruption, yet found herself with the same urges to comfort as when she dealt with a new arrival. Her fingers itched to smooth the soft furrows in his brow, to stroke his hair and hold him close and tell him he was safe and loved. She tightened her grip on the glass to keep herself in check.

Afterwards, knowing he must be off soon, he had risen to take his leave and thanked her. She knew the reason for his gratitude but she feigned a soft ignorance in reply. It was not a gambit to fish for flattery, but rather to dismiss the moment, to relegate the flash of weakness and vulnerability to the past. Deborah recognized that he was a proud and private man. To pour out as he had done, even to such a receptive audience as she, would have cost him, and she longed to spare him further pain or discomfort.

A bit of her reasoning, her emotion, her longing for… several things must have seeped into her eyes, because neither seemed consciously aware of him striding towards her, yet she was in his arms in an instant.

The first kiss was abrupt, almost violent in its suddenness. Knocked slightly off balance by his ardor, she was grateful for the bracing hand cupping her head and the arm banded around her ribs. Deborah made the belated decision to give in to the moment just as it ended; her hand grazed the softly curling locks at the nape of his neck as he slowly straightened. They broke apart for the sparest of instances, eyes locked on one another like a sniper locating a target.

A lightning quick rearrangement of limbs and this time the surge was entirely mutual. One hand caressed his cheek as the other latched around his neck, drawing him close as he bent to accommodate the disparity in their heights and wrapped his arms fully around her.

She poured everything into that kiss. All her love, her longing, her desire, mingling on her tongue with tea and spice and liquor. She held his face in her hands as though he might break, desperate to hold onto him, yet wanting to let him go if he pulled away.

She was not entirely ashamed to admit (at least to herself) that had his partner not walked in and discovered them, she was uncertain exactly how far things would have progressed.

As they sprang apart, she'd caught the briefest glance out of the corner of her eye. On his face had been a clear mix of shame, guilt, sadness- though a faint trace remained of the arousal he had felt.

She remained facing the far wall as the two detectives held a stilted conversation. She stubbornly refused to turn around, even after Sergeant Drake beat a hasty retreat. The wooden floor gave another fateful creak, and she sensed him looking at her before he turned and strode away.

Deborah hoped he had caught a glimpse of her, that he did not misunderstand her reasons for the swift rotation. She had turned quickly, not to gather her composure, but rather to hide the completely unremorseful expression on her face. She did not regret a single fraction of the time, neither a push nor a pucker, and certainly not the rapturous feel of being in his arms. She knew the gleaming eyes, the flushed cheeks, the faintly bruised lips that refused to stop curving into a breathless smile, would give her away. It was a look Deborah had witnessed from time to time, in the ever-shifting sea of the city. It was the unmistakable look of a woman in love.

**Author's Note:**

> I squee'd like the fangirl I am when I saw this, and re-watched this sequence about 40 times. Couldn't resist penning the thoughts that sprang up.  
> can't wait til the new season starts next week!


End file.
